


gravity rides everything

by indications



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:56:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indications/pseuds/indications
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you hear cecil say on the radio that there’s no one else like you on earth. you wish you could say the same about him.</p><p> </p><p>Fluffy lapselock fic in which Carlos asks a Very Important Question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gravity rides everything

**Author's Note:**

> everything will fall right into place  
> when we die, some sink and some lay  
> but at least i don't see you float away
> 
> modest mouse // gravity rides everything

you hear cecil say on the radio you’re the most beautiful person on earth. divine carlos, perfect carlos. _a singularity of loveliness_ , he said the other day, which actually made you chuckle. (he _has_ been getting into science, lately. and science puns.) you wish you could say the same about him. but that’s the thing about cecil. once you think about it, you realize you’re not entirely _sure_.

it didn’t register, at first. you do think he’s handsome – _god,_ do you think he’s handsome. but after living in night vale as long as you have, you’re getting used to picking out patterns.

when you started listening to his show, it was to get an idea of what the town was about – back when you were recording everything, talking to everyone, running around constantly overawed by things that now seem, well. not normal, exactly, but not earth-shattering anymore. you’re picking your way through this town’s rules, constants, the laws of its operation. you can predict, measure, test, _reproduce results_ if you follow the right rules. the rules are just... different here.

here, the afternoon news radio host can get up-to-the-minute updates without any apparent communication with the outside world. cell phones are unreliable, though to this day you can’t figure out if that’s paranormal or just a result of the badly-placed broadcasting towers that don’t seem to have ever seen repair. sure, the interns often run bulletins in, but some of the things cecil knows are just inexplicable.

you tried asking him about it, once, and he just laughed. ‘news travels fast in small towns, carlos,’ he said, like you were being endearingly naïve.

you’ve known cecil a while, now. you’ve known a lot of this town a while. but cecil’s the only one whose face you can’t picture when you think about it (besides those who don’t _have_ faces, or who are Unrememberables). when you see him, there he is, of course. and it’s not that nothing comes to mind when you think of him, like that man in the tan jacket. no, you can imagine cecil – just nothing specific comes to mind when you do. he’s neither tall nor short, neither thin nor fat. neither young nor old for you. handsome, you think, but probably not everyone’s type. and his smile is warm and his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs and his skin smells like sage and when you kiss him his hands go still, wherever they are.

 but what does he _look_ like?

you don’t actually know.

he knows things he can’t possibly know, he may or may not have a constant physical appearance (if you could just picture him clearly, specifically...). maybe other people see him differently?

you find ways to ask – sometimes you just go at it outright. apparently in response to the weirdness of the laws of reality here, people have developed a unique understanding of what is, for example, rude to say in public.

 

“what does cecil look like?” you ask john. you’re at the farmer’s market, early in the morning. you’d come to buy cabbage and maybe an _actual_ cantaloupe, but they’re still setting up. john (‘ _you_ know,’ you imagine cecil saying, ‘the farmer?’) shrugs and strokes his bristly mustache thoughtfully. he is one of the few people left on earth who would look natural and unironic with a long stem of wheatgrass sticking out of his mouth. you have no trouble remembering what john looks like.

“wellll,” he drawls, unperturbed at the question, “i suppose he’s not very tall. not short, either. not fat. not skinny. not a big guy, not especially small. got, ehm, got some hair.”

he looks at you with one eyebrow raised. he does not have a stem of wheatgrass sticking out of his mouth. wheat and its by-products are still very illegal. “you got that memory worm that’s goin’ around?”

you shrug.

he scoots over. “don’t pass it on to me, now.”

“no,” you say, and, “sorry. right.”

you go and browse the vegetables. john’s imaginary corn is lovely, but you don’t find you especially like imaginary corn. (cecil tells you you are missing out.) 

cecil. it makes you nervous to think he might be – well, you don’t know. not real? not human? not corporeal in the same way most humans are?

you’re preoccupied as you walk _. maybe he was born with some kind of manifestation disability,_ you think idly, turning over a cantaloupe for inspection. no teeth on this one, at least? _maybe it’s rude to even ask about it._ you’re so absorbed in your own thoughts you almost run into Erika, shopping with a basket of apples already on the elbow of one of their arms.

“’scuse me,” you say, edging sideways. then, “oh, Erika, how are you today?”

Erika smiles, probably. you’re trying to get better at reading angelic expressions. it’s hard to see through all that light. “just dandy,” they say. “you’re troubled, carlos.”

“oh, you know me,” you sigh. “it’s my job, basically.”

definitely a smile. “i meant that in a sort of divinely-knowing way,” Erika says. “shoot. i’m still working on my intonation. ‘you are troubled, carlos.’ hmm.”

“er, try it slower,” you suggest. “you know, _you are troubled, my child_.”

“you have a lovely voice,” the angel sighs. “that was wonderful. yes. ‘you are troubled, my child.’”

poor thing. you think Erika must be pretty young, for an angel, at least as far as that works. they seem to be still getting the hang of things. or, you suppose, it could just be the dazzling effect of what cecil is always describing as the ‘dulcet tones’ of your voice, or the ‘perfectly lovely way you’ve coiffed your hair today’, or whatever other hypnotically beautiful thing about you. (the fact that it’s not just cecil that fawns over you is still a little off-putting sometimes.)

“could i ask you something, actually?” you ask, apparently interrupting Erika’s inner reverie. they startle a little at your voice, and the light around their face is temporarily blinding.

“oh! bless you, of course. i was a little taken in by your honeyed tones. reminds me of seraphim.”

“i get that a lot,” you sigh. “and, well, it’s about – it’s actually about something i’m sure _you_ get a lot, which – is it rude to ask if someone exists?”

Erika cocks their head to the side. “i suppose some might take offense. but i don’t think it’s inherently rude, no.”

“don’t you get asked that a lot?”

“mm. only city council, and only rhetorically. everyone else either knows we’re real or knows we aren’t. it doesn’t much matter either way.”

“huh.” well. “do you – er. i don’t suppose angels gossip much.” you honestly aren’t sure if the existing-or-not-existing thing counts as gossip. reality seems about as frequently and inanely debatable as the weather in night vale.

“oh, as long as it’s not hurtful, a little gossip never hurts,” Erika says, leaning down conspiratorially. this has the effect of increasing the general ambient light but also lessening the angle at which you have to crane your neck up.

“you know cecil?”

“of course. such a darling.” Erika winks, and you feel yourself go red in the face. _no_ , you want to say, _we are absolutely_ not _going to gossip about_ that. goodness knows cecil talks about your relationship enough on the radio.

“well, in your-” at the last second, you leave out the word ‘professional’ as just a tad presumptuous “-in your opinion, d’you think he, you know. exists?” 

Erika (probably?) looks puzzled a moment before straightening to their full, impressive height again. “i don’t know,” they say. “why don’t you ask him?”

 

you probably could have done this the easy way, but frankly, the idea still makes you a little nervous. you can’t just ask someone if they exist any more than you can (as it turns out) knock on the front door of a house that decidedly doesn’t. and you certainly can’t do it over the phone.

“i’m calling for personal reasons,” you tell cecil, and enjoy the breathless silence on the other end just as much as you did the first time. he still hasn’t gotten used to hearing you say that, and you still haven’t gotten tired of hearing him react to it.

“oh,” he says, after a second. “well.”

“would you like to come over after work? just, you know, for coffee maybe-”

“yes,” he says, “yes, carlos, i would, i, oh.” his tone takes a nosedive from fluttery-excited straight down into disappointed. “yes, i very much would, but i’m not, well, i’m not looking my best today and the secret police have issued an eleven o’clock curfew, so i haven’t got time to run home and-”

“i’m sure you look very handsome,” you interrupt. “and it’s just coffee. really. i just,” breathe, carlos, breathe, “just want to see you. and talk.” and interrogate you briefly about your existence. maybe run a few tests to be sure. ( _a few_ more _tests_ , you amend internally, _he’s there when i kiss him, at least corporeally, or at least maybe an avatar of him – maybe he’s only manifest when i’m touching him_ , _maybe he’s only manifest in the_ places _i’m touching him-_ oh no, don’t follow that thought any further-)

“okay,” cecil says, voice back in the high _dear-darling-carlos_ range. “i’ll just. come by after work.”

“yes,” you say. “good. okay. um. see you then.”

good. right. coffee. you’ll just- right. put down the phone. breathe.

against your own advice, you go and change into a nicer shirt.

 

cecil comes over. he’s wearing black slacks you could swear were tailored for him, and a lavender button-down cuffed to the elbow. the late-setting sun (it’s almost ten o’clock, for goodness’ sake, and although you can no longer bring yourself to be worried, you are a little exasperated) sets amber rays in his hair. long, thick, black, shiny hair, that doesn’t frizz out in the arid heat like yours does, pulled back loosely, just so, and his lovely dark skin half a shade darker across his nose and cheekbones where he’s blushing becomingly. how could you forget what cecil looks like? how on _earth_?

you try not to goggle at him. you think you’re doing a pretty good job of keeping it under control until he fidgets, pulls at his collar, smiles kind of hopelessly.

“i told you i wasn’t looking my best,” he says.

you stand in the doorway a minute more, agape. “no,” you fumble, “no, just, when you said that i thought maybe you were just wearing an old t-shirt, or - or you hadn’t had a shower this morning-”

“well, i didn’t,” he says, flushing a little darker, “but, well, here i am, and-”

“you’re _gorgeous_ ,” you gush, and - oh, god, _smooth, carlos_ – but cecil just grins.

“you don’t think it’s too plain?” he asks. “we’re having a Bland Week, because it’s that time of the celestial cycle for station management and they get so touchy about the littlest things and i thought, well, what’s more bland than-” he gestures down, so you don’t feel at all guilty about giving him another thorough once-over. _god_ , those pants fit him just right.

“i think you look great,” you say, and finally stand aside in the doorway. “um, would you like to come in?”

“yes,” he says, beaming, “please.”

 

you invite him to sit on the couch, and you get coffee for both of you. you try to picture him in your mind, just for practice. black slacks, yes, and – hair, right, john even said something about his hair. hm. you think it might be red? he’s not tall, not short... damn it.

you come in with a mug in each hand, and when you see him, you almost drop them both. Christ, his hair isn’t red, of course it’s not red. it’s darker than yours, long just past his shoulders. he’s about an inch taller than you when he’s not wearing heeled boots (which he isn’t, today). teeth a little crooked on top, full lips you can’t look at without wanting to kiss, ears he’s always tucking his hair behind when he’s embarrassed. you can remember all this. he’s right in front of you.

“sugar?” you ask, as you hand him his cup.

“please.”

back to the kitchen. okay. he’s got – well, you like his mouth, it’s – inviting, yes, you can remember how you _feel_ about it. you like his hair, however he wears it. he’s – shorter than you? no, forget it, you’ll run a few quick tests this evening. just. ask him if he’s real.

right.

 _but he does exist_ , your brain insists, though it’s sounding a little desperate. _he does. he’s right there in the living room. he exists. he has to_.

you bring sugar and make small talk. he tells you more about station management getting upset by small but predictable offenses, such as creative outfit choices and the coffee pot being left unattended in the break room. you tell him about running into Erika at the market today, hoping for an easy transition into The Question.

“i think they’re still in training, honestly,” you laugh. “we practiced sounding divinely knowing. and, you know, Erika said the funniest thing about, um, existing...” oh, shit, no, that was a terrible segue and now you’re stuck with it. cecil looks at you expectantly.

“yes?”

“they said, ‘city council only asks us rhetorically if we exist. everyone knows we exist or knows we don’t.’”

cecil actually _laughs_ , and you’re not sure for a moment whether it’s genuine or if he’s just doing it because you said it was funny. “oh, that’s good – do you think i could quote them on tomorrow’s show? ‘everyone knows we exist or knows we don’t.’ how adorable!”

“yeah,” you say, “and, you know, it got me thinking...”

“you do that a lot,” he says, and you smile before you realize it’s not a joke.

“well, i was just wondering. about you, because you sometimes...” no, that’s even ruder, you don’t need to list the impossible things he does or try to put into words your worry that he’ll just _not_ , someday, just not be there- “do you, um, you know. do you exist?”

cecil frowns. god, you hope that wasn’t offensive.

“god, i hope that wasn’t offensive,” you say.

“you know, i was just thinking about that myself,” he says. “sometimes i’m not really sure.” but he brightens, some, looking at you. “but i’ve been worrying about it less and less lately.”

“oh...?” oh, this could be good. maybe there’s some uniquely night valeian test? maybe they sell them in the c-store with the pregnancy tests (and the fecal occult blood tests, which are apparently, disturbingly, indispensible; the ‘brood hatch date’ tests, which you are unfortunately, intimately aware of the uses for; and the live doves and rabbits used for divination, of which your team adopted several during your first few weeks before giving up and routinely averting your eyes in the store). you should have checked there first.

“since we started seeing each other,” he says, and your heart flutters a little, and you sternly pretend it’s just the coffee hitting your system. “i’ve just been, well.”

cecil looks at you. really looks at you. he’s got an incredibly piercing gaze. sometimes you forget to breathe properly when he looks at you like this.

“i’ve just been feeling realer and realer,” he says. “like i exist especially when you look at me.”

in addition to putting on a nice shirt, you’d set up to run a few diagnostic tests. basic stuff. just to make sure he’s really real. that he’s not going anywhere.

you forget them.

you lean over and initiate a makeout session that lasts half an hour. you wouldn’t have noticed the time passing if you’d kissed him all night. when his teeth graze your lower lip you give up on all measures of reality outside his mouth and his hands.

but night vale’s rules come as easy as breathing to cecil. at exactly ten forty-five, he abruptly startles, squeaks, elbows you by accident, apologizes, and reminds you of the curfew all in one sudden contained explosion. you let him sit back, straighten his shirt, and glance at the door before you have the presence of mind to catch his hand.

“stay,” you say, the first you’ve spoken since you dropped The Question. “you can’t get home in fifteen minutes, cecil, just... stay.”

he looks at you. there must be a word for the way he _looks_ at you. you feel realer, too. like you exist wholly, completely, no questions about it. you’d never questioned it and with him looking at you like this you’re never going to.

“don’t go anywhere,” you say, quietly, and he doesn’t smile. doesn’t stop _looking_ at you, even as he leans in again, even as you slide your hands around his waist. he doesn’t close his eyes until you’re kissing him again, and then you feel him smile, softly.

he stays.


End file.
